Darsael — Capital of the Thorne Dominion, One of the Five Kingdoms
The Hall of Aegis shimmered with ancient power.
Stained glass towers lined the great chamber, each one etched with the triumphs of House Thorne elemental duels, fallen beasts, strands sealed and unsealed. Arcane light drifted gently through the air like silk threads drawn from an invisible loom visible only to those who had awakened a Core.
Lucen Thorne could not yet see them.
But all believed he soon would.
He stood at the center of the hall, surrounded by nobles, emissaries, and military dignitaries from across the Dominion. The mantle of inheritance weighed on his shoulders a high-collared coat of white and gold, the ceremonial colors of the heir, clasped with the sigil of House Thorne: the Eternal Weave.
Seventeen years old. Unawakened. But a prodigy of mind and discipline.
He had not been born heir.
That honor once belonged to his elder brother Kaelen Thorne, older by a single month, groomed from birth to rule.
But Lucen had eclipsed him.
Courtcraft, bladework, Source theory Lucen had outperformed his brother in every arena. The nobles whispered. The tutors praised. Even the Emperor's own daughter, Serenya Valemere, had pledged herself to Lucen instead.
And now, he would be named.
At the far end of the hall, beneath the gilded Loom of Succession, Archon Velian Thorne
Lucen's father rose to speak.
"Let it be known across the Five Kingdoms and the Imperium's grace.
Today, House Thorne names its heir not by age, but by providence.
Lucen Thorne. First Son by Right of Recognition.
Scion of Darsael. Inheritor of the Archon's Line."
A hush fell across the chamber. Not from shock the rumors had already spread but from the finality of it.
Kaelen stood behind Lucen, still and silent.
Lucen stepped forward and knelt before the obsidian altar, carved from stone taken from Godscar Pass the mountain scar that marked the edge of the civilized world.
"Do you accept the burden and the bloodline?"
"I do."
"Do you swear to guide House Thorne with wisdom, to serve the Source, and to shield the Dominion?"
"I swear it."
"Then rise, Lucen Thorne. And be named."
He stood.
The nobles applauded.
Kaelen turned and left without a word.
——
One Week Later — The Forbidden Rite
Kaelen stood alone in a sealed ritual chamber beneath the Academy's deepest level.
He had taken the Rite in secret a violation of protocol, of trust, of order.
But he had to know.
The glyphs burned into the stone began to rise, and the Source answered.
Pain tore through him. Light blazed behind his eyes. For a moment, he thought his soul would burn away.
But it did not.
When he came to, his hand was aglow.
Not with fire. Not with wind. Not with shadow.
With Light.
A rare strand. One spoken of in scripture, feared by even the Imperial High Circle.
Only one in a million ever awakened it.
And Kaelen Thorne had done so in secret.
——
The Archon's Solar
Kaelen stood before the fire, his hand raised. A sphere of radiant white hovered just above his palm calm, pulsing, untouched by shadow.
Across from him, Archon Velian Thorne stared not with pride, but with awe tempered by dread.
"Light," he whispered. "And you survived..."
Kaelen nodded. "You chose Lucen. But the Source chose me ."
The door opened.
Serenya entered first. She did not smile.
The Emperor followed Caer Valemere of the Imperium Solis, clad in midnight silk, the imperial crest pinned over his chest like a judgment.
He stepped forward, eyes narrowing at the light in Kaelen's palm.
"This changes everything," the Emperor said.
Velian hesitated. "Lucen has already been named."
"Then he must be... corrected."
Velian's jaw clenched. "He is a leader. Brilliant. Balanced. Unmatched in poise. You've seen it yourself."
The Emperor didn't raise his voice—he didn't need to.
"But he is not chosen."
He gestured toward the sphere still glowing in Kaelen's hand.
"The Light strand is the rarest among the Source. Not rare like Steel or Flame. Not even like Ice or Shadow.
It has not been seen in the Dominion in over three centuries.
One in a million awaken it. Fewer survive.
But those who do... they don't merely weave.
They lead. They change things."
He stepped closer, voice low but absolute.
"With Light... we may finally have a weapon strong enough to challenge the Borderlands.
Not hold the line. Not contain the rot. But push it back.
Reclaim what was lost. Change the shape of the map."
Serenya stepped beside Kaelen, her eyes distant.
"The people will follow him. Not because of politics or ceremony. But because they will believe he was sent to cleanse the world."
Velian's voice dropped. "And Lucen?"
"He will awaken," Serenya said gently. "But not to this. Not to something the world fears and worships.
He will fall short—and the people will turn."
The Emperor folded his arms.
"Then better he fall now than later. Quietly. Cleanly."
Velian turned to the fire.
When he spoke again, his voice was hollow.
"He'll never forgive us."
Serenya looked down.
"He'll never get the chance."
————
The Night Before the Rite
Lucen sat near his window, eyes drawn to the stars.
He felt no fear. Only anticipation.
The knock came gently.
He turned.
Serenya stepped in, dressed simply. A silver pendant rested at her throat—one he had given her. She smiled.
"I thought you might need something to calm your nerves."
She held up a flask and two crystal cups.
"A final toast before you become something more."
Lucen laughed softly. "You always did know how to ruin formality."
She poured the drink. Amber, fragrant. Not too sweet.
They clinked glasses.
"To the future," she said.
Lucen drank.
It warmed his chest. Settled his nerves. He smiled.
"Thank you," he said.
She leaned in and kissed him softly.
"No matter what happens tomorrow... remember, you were the first one I believed in."
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[End of Chapter One]
Next: Chapter Two – The Rite of the Source
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